Free Sweet Forgiveness by Lori Nelson Spielman Page A

send my stone to Mari. I need to come up with a way to truly atone.” Dorothy’s voice becomes soft, as if we’re coconspirators. “How about you? Have you reached out to your mother yet?”
    â€œDorothy, please, you don’t know the whole story.”
    â€œAnd you do?” Her voice is challenging, as if she’s the teacher and I’m her pupil. “‘Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd.’ Voltaire said that. Please, don’t be so sure of yourself, Hannah, dear. Hear your mother’s side of the tale.”

    Forty minutes later, the Escalade pulls to a stop in front of a sprawling two-story brick building. My little station in New Orleans would fit in just one wing of this monstrosity. A sign beside the entrance, nestled among a gang of fir trees, reads WCHI . I step onto the slushy pavement and take a deep breath. Showtime.
    I meet James Peters, who leads me into a conference room, where five of the top executives at the station are gathered at an oval table. Three are men, two women. I’m prepared to be grilled, but instead it’s more like a congenial chat among colleagues. They want to hear about New Orleans, my interests, what I envision for
Good Morning, Chicago
, who my dream guests might be.
    â€œWe’re especially excited about your proposal,” Helen Camps says, from the far end of the table. “Fiona Knowles and her Forgiveness Stones have become quite a craze here in the Midwest. The fact that you know her, that you were one of her original recipients, is indeed quite a story, one we’d be very interested in producing, should you be selected.”
    My stomach cramps. “Great.”
    â€œTell us what happened once you received the stones,” a gray-haired man whose name I can’t remember asks.
    I feel my face heat. Damn. This is exactly what I was afraid of. “Um, well, I received the stones in the mail, and I remembered Fiona, the girl who bullied me back in sixth grade.”
    Jan Harding, vice president of marketing chimes in. “Just curious—did you send the stone back right away, or wait a few days?”
    â€œOr weeks,” Mr. Peters says, as if weeks were the maximum time allowed.
    I laugh nervously. “Oh, I waited weeks.” Like, one hundred twelve weeks.
    â€œAnd you sent the second stone on to your mother,” Helen Camp says. “How difficult was that?”
    Jesus, can we please wrap this up? I touch the diamond-and-sapphire necklace as if it’s my talisman. “Fiona Knowles has a line in her book that really resonated with me.” I think of Dorothy’s favorite quote and repeat it like a damned hypocrite. ‘Until you pour light onto whatever it is that cloaks you in darkness, you’ll forever be lost.’”
    My nose burns and tears spring to my eyes. For the first time, I realize the truth in these words. I am lost. So very lost. Here I am, making up a story of forgiveness, lying to all of these people sitting in front of me.
    â€œWell, we’re happy you’ve been found,” Jan says. She leans in. “And lucky for us, we’ve found you!”

    James Peters and I sit in the backseat of a taxi as the driver speeds down Fullerton Avenue toward Kinzie Chophouse for our lunch meeting with two of the anchors. “Well done this morning, Hannah,” he says to me. “As you can tell, it’s a terrific group here at WCHI. I think you’d be a great fit.”
    Sure, a great fit who’s misrepresented herself. Why the heck did I choose the Forgiveness Stones for my proposal? There’s no way in hell I’d have my mother on the show. I smile at him. “Thanks. It’s an impressive team.”
    â€œI’ll tell it to you straight. You’ve got a terrific proposal and some of the best demo tapes we’ve seen. I’ve been aware of you for a decade. My sister lives in New Orleans and says